


chemical reaction, flashback to your bed

by M0stlyVoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alchemist Draco Malfoy, Alchemy, Breaking Up & Making Up, Case Fic, Head Auror Harry Potter, M/M, Magical Experimentation, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Polyjuice Potion, Sort Of, Spell Failure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Draco and Harry hooked up. Draco stopped talking to Harry. Harry’s feelings got hurt, but he did his best to move on.That might have been the end of this particular story, except then everyone who’s ever spoken out against Draco’s freedom after the War starts dropping dead, one by one.Harry never thought he would have to see Draco again. Unfortunately, with Draco’s name at the top of the suspect list, he can’t put it off any longer...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 33
Kudos: 144





	chemical reaction, flashback to your bed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shealwaysreads (onereader)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/gifts).



> happiest, happiest birthday to the lovely bella, who is truly one of the kindest, most welcoming people in fandom.
> 
> eternal gratitude to tacky and maesterchill for everything they do.

“So I hear you have someone interesting on your schedule for the afternoon,” Hermione says casually, leaning over to steal one of Harry’s chips.

He scowls playfully at her, but allows it. “And how, exactly, do you know what’s on the Head Auror’s daily calendar, _Undersecretary_ Granger?” he enquires, lifting an eyebrow. He knows as well as she does that her official Ministry title is total bullshit, but they’re in public, and covers must be maintained, and Harry doesn’t much fancy getting on the wrong side of Mysteries. His day is going poorly enough as it is.

Hermione, probably rightly, ignores his little jab. “Honestly, Harry. Thuban Black? I’ve _told_ you, that secretary of yours is going to get you in serious trouble one day—he’s bloody awful at coming up with plausible names, and he’s chatty besides. I know he’s pretty, but you’ve _got_ to replace him. Can’t you call back—oh, what was her name, Allison? She was _excellent,_ and I seem to recall you found her easy on the eyes as well…” Her tone is disapproving—Hermione has never approved of Harry’s criteria in selecting his office staff.

“She _was_ excellent,” he leers, tamping down a smile as Hermione gets redder and redder. Just as it seems she’s about to explode at him, he grins cheekily at her. “Calm down. I recommended her for a promotion—she’s up managing the Minister’s secretary pool now. She was far too good for the DMLE; I couldn’t hold her back just because she’s impervious to the press.”

“You— Oh, you know, you’re a _real_ shit sometimes, Harry Potter,” Hermione huffs, pulling his pint glass over and taking a long drink. “Honestly. Winding me up like that—and don’t think that I haven’t seen right past your efforts to distract me.”

Harry winces and steals his glass back, draining it before Hermione can pilfer any more. “Yeah, I didn’t really think that would work for long.”

“So…?”

Sighing, Harry flags down a waiter and orders another two pints. He can already tell this lunch break is going to stretch longer than the hour he normally takes. “Yeah. Draco’s coming in this afternoon.”

Hermione watches him steadily for a moment. “As a suspect?” she enquires gently.

Harry shrugs one shoulder, looking down at the table and tracing over the woodgrain instead of meeting her eyes. “Not...exactly. It’s complicated, you know. The evidence is… Well. It’s circumstantial, but compelling. The papers are out for blood, half my department is calling for his immediate arrest...but.”

“But,” Hermione echoes softly.

Harry groans and barely stops himself from banging his head on the table. “I can’t stop thinking that if I’d done something when he sent me that first letter, none of this would be happening,” he admits. “If I had just gone over and _listened_ to him, instead of assuming he was fucking with me, trying to waste resources just to get a rise out of me… It’s been over a decade since Hogwarts, and I haven’t even _spoken_ to him since...well. _You_ know. And still, all I can do when I see his name is assume the worst. I’m supposed to be better than that, now.”

Hermione’s hand covers his own, stilling his fingers from their nervous tapping. “You can’t blame yourself for this,” she says firmly. “After all, you wouldn’t blame _me,_ would you? And I’m the one who told you that what he was claiming wasn’t possible. Draco is...a complicated man, Harry, and he holds his secrets close, and _we couldn’t know_. If he’d shared more in the letter, or if my colleagues over in Experimental moved even a _little_ bit faster and didn’t have such a damn backlog of submissions… Well. They might have reviewed his work in time. Is it their fault? Harry, this is all just...a confluence of bad luck and missteps. You can’t take it all on your shoulders.”

Harry clutches her hand gratefully. “You’re right. I _know_ that you’re right, but… _Six murders,_ Hermione. Even though I believe him—at least, I’m _pretty_ sure I believe him—how am I ever going to get him out of this?”

Now it’s Hermione’s turn to raise one shoulder. “Blind luck?” she offers wryly, and Harry laughs in spite of himself.

* * *

Harry stretches his lunch break as long as he can, but eventually he and Hermione have to make their way back to the Ministry.

He fiddles with some paperwork for the next hour or so, reading through the field Aurors’ reports and leaving far more notes than he usually does. He’s procrastinating his final review of the case files before Draco comes in, he knows it, but he can’t help it.

It’s just...this _is_ his fault, despite what Hermione said at lunch. All of it—the murders, the public outcry, the position Draco finds himself in now, having to come to the Ministry in disguise, under a false name.

The fact that Draco left in the first place.

Harry’s done a halfway decent job of putting it from his mind these past few years, but all the careful work he did to button his feelings about what happened _that night_ came roaring back to the forefront the morning he broke the rich green seal on the thick, shimmering parchment and read Draco’s first plea for help.

He pulls the stack of letters out from the concealed drawer at the base of his desk, spreading them in front of him in chronological order. They’re all opened by now, but they hadn’t been prior to yesterday, and with mingled dread and guilt Harry opens and scans through them again, one by one.

_...I know you don’t want to hear from me…_

_...something’s going wrong, I’m afraid that…_

_...just the beginning, I’m not sure..._

_...please, Harry, I’m begging you. I need help..._

_...I don’t know what to do, I don’t even know if you’re reading these…_

Harry’s gut twists as he puts the last letter down.

It’s clear now that there’s no way Draco could have had anything to do with the spate of murderers that have plagued Wizarding London over the last weeks; despite the fact that every corpse that’s turned up has been, either personally or professionally, a threat to Draco’s livelihood or freedom, it’s clear to Harry from the poorly-disguised panic in the letters that Draco has nothing to do with any of it. Not directly, at least.

And if Harry had managed to put away his own hurt feelings and actually _done_ something, maybe he’d have been able to head this off at the pass; even though Hermione is insistent that whatever Draco’s managed to produce, locked up in his Manor like he’s been for the last three years, is well beyond anything Harry and the DMLE could handle, he could have helped _somehow_ , even if it was only ensuring Mysteries got involved right away.

But his pride, so wounded after Draco stopped taking his calls after the second time they slept together almost four years ago, had him putting the letters to the side, sure that Draco was either messing with him, or trying to throw him off.

And now…

Harry puts his head in his hands. He’s only got about ten minutes before Draco comes in, and he has to pull himself together. Less than that, if Draco is anything like he once was.

Sure enough, almost as soon as Harry has the thought, Christopher is knocking and popping his head through the office door. “Auror Potter, sir? Your, er. Your _four o’clock_ is here. You know. _Thuban Black_.” He raises his eyebrows significantly, and Harry conceals a sigh. Hermione is right—Christopher came highly recommended, and his arse certainly does look nice in the tight, tailored trousers he favours whenever he bends down to drop Harry’s tea off, but he hasn’t got a subtle bone in his body; he may as well prance down the Ministry hallways (preferably shirtless, if Harry’s being honest with himself) shouting _Draco Malfoy’s in for questioning; that’s right, Draco Malfoy, just over here, everybody!_

“Send him in, and then you can leave for the day, Christopher. Thank you,” Harry replies, leaning back in his chair and making one last attempt to get his heartbeat under control.

Merlin. Draco Malfoy, in his office. In public at _all,_ frankly. He almost can’t believe it.

The brunet who slips through his door is unremarkable—average height, average build, and utterly forgettable in every way. At least Christopher was able to find a suitable Muggle for the Polyjuice when Harry instructed him to set this interview.

Draco takes a seat across from Harry, tugging at his jacket—a sure sign that it’s been resized imperfectly for the build of whoever he’s impersonating right now.

“How much longer?” Harry asks, pleased that his voice is steady.

Draco glances at his wristwatch. “About ten more minutes. I took it a little after three, like the note said.” He won’t meet Harry’s eyes. Harry’s not sure what he’d see in them, anyway; not in this unfamiliar shade of brown, not after so long.

“Excellent. Well, if you don’t mind...I’d rather we wait until you’re, er, back to yourself. Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Draco mutters, still staring at Harry’s desk.

Well, fuck. Now they have to just _sit here_ in silence.

Harry shifts and winces when he knocks his knee against the bottom side of his desk. He looks up in time to catch the side of Draco’s borrowed mouth flickering up in what might be a smile. And even though it might be at his expense, Harry’s rather shocked at just how glad he is to see Draco smiling again. Their last interaction had been much less pleasant, and Harry has to forcibly shove the memory of Draco’s snide, mocking voice to the back of his mind and focus as Draco’s hair starts to slowly bleed back to blonde.

The transformation back is relatively quick, but when Draco cancels the adjustments to his clothing, he’s sweating and clenching his jaw. Harry is only too familiar with how Polyjuice feels, and he hands over the pain-relieving potion he’d thought to grab in advance of this meeting.

Draco examines the vial in surprise. “...Thank you,” he says cautiously, uncorking it and sniffing before swallowing it down. Harry tamps down his irritation; he well remembers how paranoid Draco had been when they were...whatever they were, and he can’t imagine the intervening years spent locked up in his Manor’s lab has done much to change that.

Harry lets the silence drag on, just long enough for Draco to shift uncomfortably in the chair, before he starts talking.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr Malfoy,” he finally begins, and _that_ gets Draco’s eyes flashing quicksilver-fast up to meet his, just for a moment. “I want to make it clear that this is not a mandatory interview; you are not currently under active suspicion for the case I’m working on. In that light, I do appreciate your time today, as well as any help you can provide the Aurors.”

“What—” Draco interjects, furrowing his brows. “Why. Harry, come on. I understand that you’re still upset with me, but really, is it necessary to—”

“I would appreciate it if we could keep the discussion to the matter at hand,” Harry interrupts icily. He’s barely hanging on to control of his emotions—his magic is buzzing under his skin—and he’s drawing on the formality of a by-the-book Auror interview to keep himself together.

He knew it would be hard, if he ever saw Draco again. He had _no idea_.

Draco’s always been thin; even in those heady months after the war, when Harry was still a field Auror and Draco was a constant fixture at parties and events, when they first started circling around each other, Draco was long and lanky, made up of lines and angles. His chin has always been too pointy and his cheekbones too pronounced, his eyes too big for his brow. But he’d been _alive,_ in the bright-eyed, feverish way they all had been then; desperately grabbing at the life he didn’t know he’d be allowed, whirling from suitor to suitor, headline to headline, until his orbit brought him closer to Harry and pulled them together.

Now, though, his cheeks are sunken, and his skin is dry, and his haircut is so severely short it makes Harry wince to look at him. Even his nails, which Harry can’t help but notice as Draco wrings his hands over and over in his lap, are bitten down to the quick. And his eyes...

Draco, for lack of a better word, looks defeated. His eyes are bloodshot, with circles underneath so dark it looks like he’s been punched, and all the light—all the _life_ —has been drained from them.

Harry aches to see him like this, wants to touch, to soothe—but. This is his fault, all of it, all because Draco’s _You didn’t think we were_ dating, _did you Potter?_ still cut him far more than it should even so many years later.

“I think we both know I didn’t have a choice but to respond to your summons, _Head Auror Potter,_ ” Draco says scornfully, shaking Harry back to the present. “That was a pretty little speech, but forgive me for not believing a word of it. You should know that things tend to not go very well for people who threaten me, these days.”

 _Is that a threat,_ Harry almost asks, but something in Draco’s voice… There’s a flat resignation there, a surrender to whatever he’s decided fate has in store for him. Harry hates it. Draco should be bright, and mean, and pushy, not...whatever this is.

“Well, that’s why I’ve asked you in,” Harry says carefully, pushing his files about on his desk to give his hands something to do. “It’s true that there are certain… _factions_ that are eager to blame the murders on you. I understand where they’re coming from, but there’s no evidence, just provable motive. And…” He draws the letters out and slowly flattens them on the desk between them, noting how Draco’s eyes dart to the parchments, a flush beginning on his neck. “Well. I have these. They’ve convinced _me_.”

Draco stares at the letters, then finally, _finally_ meets Harry’s eyes, an ugly sneer crawling across his face. “How _nice_ for you, Potter,” he says lowly, leaning forward, gaze intent. Harry feels shame blooming in his belly again. “I suppose it might be too much to ask for you to _do something_ with that conviction? What is it you _want_ from me, Harry? Shall I come crawling to you and kiss your feet and beg for absolution? Stand in front of the press and present my _mea culpas_ for all to see? Come and watch, everyone—Draco Malfoy, the man who dared to reject the great Harry Potter! If he’s _lucky,_ he won’t be thrown in _Azkaban_ for crimes he had nothing to do with!” Draco’s voice is strident by the end of his diatribe, his face red, his eyes burning in their sunken sockets.

Harry shrinks back into his chair. “No! No, I swear, it’s— I haven’t been. This wasn’t on _purpose_. I just…” Time to come clean. “I didn’t read your letters. Except for the first one, I didn’t open them until just before I sent you the letter to set the meeting. I understand this doesn’t make it better, but I promise, I never would have— If I had _known_ —” He trails off and meets Draco’s eyes firmly. “More than anything, I wish I hadn’t let my...my personal feelings, my own grievances, get in the way of ensuring these cases were investigated utilizing _all_ of our resources; including these letters. Including you.”

Draco closes his eyes and sits back. His face is drawn, haggard with lines that weren’t there just a few years back. “So I did it to myself, yet again,” he says hollowly.

They sit quietly for a while. Harry can just hear the sounds of the department wrapping up for the day through his door, and he redoubles the privacy charms; it wouldn’t do for a passing Auror to overhear what’s going on in here.

“Hermione’s seen your first letter,” Harry says finally. “She said that what you’re claiming should be impossible, and that if it’s not, you didn’t include enough information to be of any use. Draco, what _happened_ to you? I understand if...if you didn’t want to see me. But you just...disappeared. No more events, none of the galas, no Quidditch matches. Where did you go? Where have you been?”

Draco drags a shaking hand down his face. “I’ve been...consumed, Harry,” he says hoarsely. “It wasn’t… I was so close, you know. Or, I thought I was. It hasn’t been done in centuries, and _I_ was going to be the one to do it. I couldn’t afford any distractions. I had to focus on the work. It was as if I were possessed. That’s when I should have known something had gone wrong.”

Harry watches him closely, comprehension slowly dawning. “Are you...you’re not saying you were able to…”

“The _Magnum Opus,_ ” Draco whispers, staring at Harry with fever-shining eyes. “The Philosopher’s Stone. I really thought I’d done it, Harry. It’s the work of a lifetime, of _several_ lifetimes, and suddenly there I was, on the precipice of decoding the steps. I couldn’t...I couldn’t be with you. I couldn’t be with _anyone_. It was too important. And then, six months ago, all the time I’d spent, all the life I’d lost...I thought it would all be worth it, because I’d done it, and I’d have as much time, and as much life, as I wanted.”

To say that Harry is stunned is putting it mildly. “Draco, I…” he starts, but Draco cuts him off with a sharp hand motion.

“I didn’t do it, Harry. I _thought_ I did it. It looked like the Stone. It _felt_ like the stone. It wasn’t. I don’t know exactly what it is I’ve made, but it’s sentient. It’s malicious. And it’s bound itself to me. Instead of imbuing immortality, it takes life away—anything, and anyone, it perceives as a threat to me. I have tried _everything,_ once I realized what had happened, to reverse it. And I can’t. That’s why I wrote to you. I should have…” He sighs heavily. “I should have known you wouldn’t believe me. I barely believe myself, some days—I wake up and start my day and think, is this just a side effect of the isolation I’ve locked myself into for so long? But then I open the paper and the proof is screaming at me from the front page—another death, another business gone under, hell, another tariff reduced on ingredients I need. One by one, every single obstacle to a happy life was removed from my path, and the blocks were used to build my prison. I have no _proof,_ Harry, and neither do you. You know as well as I do that the letters don’t exonerate me.”

“Christ,” Harry mutters. “God, but we’ve fucked this up, haven’t we?”

Draco barks out a laugh. “Quite completely, I’d say.”

Harry rubs at the bridge of his nose. “So does that…” He pauses. This is completely unprofessional, but the way Draco’s watching him now… “When you told me that I was being too needy. That you didn’t want me. That I was stupid to think I was ever more than a trophy you could brag over having. You didn’t mean it?”

Draco’s eyes go liquid and anguished. “Oh, Harry. How could I have _ever_ meant that? You know how it was with us. I’m so sorry I made you think that you weren’t important to me. I was so blind. There’s nothing I can do to make it right.”

Something knotted in Harry’s chest, something he’d forgotten was even there, loosens. He stands and circles his desk, kneeling down in front of Draco and cupping his too-thin face with both hands. “We can’t go back, no. But we can go _forward_. I _will_ fix this, Draco, I swear to you we will figure something out. We can figure it out _together_.” 

Draco bows his head, and they’re still together, breathing each other’s air.

Harry breaks the silent with a wet laugh, drawing back and getting to his feet, turning away to discreetly wipe at his eyes. “You’re far too thin, Draco. You look like you haven’t eaten a proper meal in years. What happened to those elves of yours?”

Draco fiddles with his hair, pushing a lank strand behind his ear. “Oh, they’ve quite given up on me, I’m afraid to say. They’ve taken to cooking more and more elaborate meals and staring at me after they deliver it, trying to guilt me into eating. It’s just...for so long, I was so consumed by the work it felt that doing _anything_ else was a waste. Eating, sleeping...all of it could be pushed aside with the right potions. And then, once the fog cleared and I realized what had happened, it was like...I couldn’t see past this horrible thing I’d done for long enough to see the point in taking care of myself any longer. I don’t blame you for being...well. I’m not looking my best, let’s just put it that way.”

Harry leans against his desk and touches the top of Draco’s head. “It’s got nothing to do with that,” he murmurs. “You don’t look _well,_ Draco, and I’m worried. You need sunlight, and rest, and three squares. You need someone to fuss over you a bit.”

Draco attempts a smirk. “Are you volunteering for the job? I’ll warn you now, it comes with almost no benefits whatsoever.”

“I’m sure I can think of a few,” Harry says, transfixed by Draco’s eyes, but just as he’s leaning down to press their mouths together, a burst of sound from out in the bullpen sends him flying back to his feet. “Wait here,” he instructs Draco, who sits up straight and clutches the chair arms, knuckles turning white.

Harry opens the door and sticks his head out. “What’s going on out here??” he bellows, catching Christopher’s eye through the chaos. “Didn’t I send you home?”

“Oh, Head Auror Potter, you _did,_ but there was a bloody _passel_ of reporters in the Atrium, all of them screaming out about how they’d heard Draco Malfoy was in your office for an interview, and then suddenly word came down that there’d been another murder, and you wouldn’t _believe_ the scrum, they were stampeding back and forth, nobody knew what to think or what to do, and then the Aurors started coming back in, so I figured I’d better get back up here. Sir,” Christopher adds hastily, clearly seeing the thundercloud on Harry’s face.

Harry steps out of his office and strides to Christopher’s desk. He doesn’t bother shutting the door—there’s no point now. “And how,” he hisses, “did they find out that Mr Malfoy was in for an interview? Was it perhaps the same way they’d found out about the manner of death from the last murder scene? _Who did you tell,_ Christopher?”

Christopher shrinks back. “N-Nobody, sir! I swear it! I didn’t tell a single soul; I learned after last time!”

“You were the only one who knew!” Harry snaps, staring around the department. One of his Deputy Heads is gathering a field team together in a conference room; no doubt they’re about to present the initial evidence. His gut twists. Another body on his conscience. “How _else_ could they have figured it out?”

“Not _quite_ the only one,” an amused voice from beside him chimes in.

Harry jumps and turns to scowl at Hermione, who’s smirking at him and raising a significant eyebrow towards his open office door. Harry can just see that Draco is gawping out at the scene. “What did you do?” he asks Hermione through clenched teeth.

“Oh,” she says casually, examining her nails. “Just had a bit of a rather loud conversation in a rather public location, I suppose. Utterly on accident, of course; I’d _never_ do anything to compromise the integrity of your case, even if it _did_ give Draco a rather splendid alibi.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “And _how_ did you know it would work out that way?”

Hermione shrugs one shoulder. “I didn’t. I let slip that he’d come in voluntarily, to present compelling evidence in the case that would both clear his name and point the DMLE in the right direction. I was hoping a solid source would lend credence to the tip, and might even convince Draco to _actually share pertinent information with people who can help_.” She says this last bit loudly, and Harry can see Draco wince.

Harry laughs, a bit hysterically. “Merlin. You mentioned blind luck at lunch today; have you taken up Divination in your spare time?”

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Hermione cautions. “What Draco’s managed to do...it’s remarkable, unprecedented. It’s going to take the full force of my team to figure it out and reverse what he’s created. And we’ll need _all_ your research, Malfoy; no more of this coy holding back!” she directs towards Harry’s office.

“Of course,” comes Draco’s meek voice. “Anything you need.”

“Excellent,” Hermione says briskly. “Harry, I think you and Malfoy should go back and gather up the project—all his notes, all his research, any prior attempts or physical evidence that might have been preserved. I’ll come by tomorrow morning and get started.”

“But,” Harry starts. There was a murder, and he’s Head Auror.

“No,” Hermione says firmly, shoving him back towards his office. “You have a perfectly capable set of deputies. There’s no reason for you to be here for this part.” Her voice softens as Harry hesitates in the doorway. “Take Draco home. He needs a meal, and a rest, and you both need to talk. You’ll need to be able to work together if we’re going to figure this out. Clear the air. Be ready to get to it tomorrow.”

Harry blinks at her. “When did you get promoted to my job?” he asks, grinning a little.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’ve _always_ outranked you, Harry. Now go.” She shoos him into the office and shuts the door firmly behind him.

Harry and Draco look at each other for a moment, and finally Draco cracks a hesitant smile. “She hasn’t changed a bit, has she?” he asks wryly, getting to his feet.

Harry shakes his head fondly and crosses to his private Floo, which is warded to the teeth and only allows travel one way, from his office to his home. “No, she has not. Which means we’d best get going; she’ll be in to check on us any minute.” He throws powder into the flames. “I’m still at Grimmauld; you’re...you’re still keyed into the wards, so you should arrive in my study. We can go from there to the Manor.”

He’s about to call out his address when Draco’s hand, cool and dry and achingly familiar, curls into his own. Harry flashes back to that hand skimming over his hips, those fingers twisting inside him, and he shivers hard.

Yes, there’s a lot to talk about still. But Draco’s hand in his own heals something he’s tried so hard to pretend for years wasn’t broken, and finally, Harry thinks he can begin to move on. _They_ can begin to move on.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from [this bastille song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHXUYhny5xM), which is one of my favorites by them and has the right vibes for this fic.
> 
> my tumblr is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


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